


An Education

by krabapple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krabapple/pseuds/krabapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a nursery/preschool teacher; John is set to observe him for the week. (Really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Education

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously an AU, inspired by the Fandom Is Good At What You Do fest, but not directly part of it. It's just a silly, cracky premise, and I'm fine with that. I have no real knowledge of the English education system, at any level, early childhood or medical, so all mistakes are mine, and I completely made up the part about observation for a pediatric rotation for plot purposes. Large swathes of dialogue are indeed from _A Study in Pink_.

The school secretary buzzes John in, and he finds an older, lovely looking woman in a burgundy suit waiting for him in the middle of the hallway. She smiles at him warmly, and John finds himself smiling back.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asks.

Mrs. Hudson places a hand out for him to shake. John does.

“John Watson. Lovely to meet you,” she says.

“Likewise.” John thinks his smile must look genuine from the way Mrs. Hudson flushes slightly, a little warmth just brushing her cheeks.

“Shall we then?” Mrs. Hudson turns a bit and gestures for John to follow her.

“Of course.” John trails Mrs. Hudson down the hall and up a very short flight of steps, stumbling a little when she pulls a sharp right. He keeps up with her rather well, all things (his cane) considered, though that could be because she might very well be slowing her pace to accommodate him. John grimaces slightly behind her.

“We have set you up with a two-year-old class today,” Mrs. Hudson informs him as they walk.

“Most people on their peadiactrics observation prefer our older children, our four and five year olds, probably because they have a good idea how to handle them already. It’s less intimidating, you see.”

John hums.

“So I’ve found, over the years, that letting our burgeoning doctors interact with the younger students really gives them a better feel for what the difficulties in peadiactrics might be like.”

Again, John makes a humming noise. He’s looking at the student’s work posted on the walls around him: large swaths of tempera paint and crayon. He really has no interest in peadiactrics, but all med students in the clinical phase are required to put in a week of observation at the uni’s child development center, and it’s simply his turn. He likes children fine, but he’ll also be glad when the week is over.

Mrs. Hudson continues talking. “The teacher you’ll be with today is, well. Unusual.”

Something in her voice makes John stop looking at the walls and start paying attention.

Mrs. Hudson must notice his look, because her voice pitches just a little higher. “It’s nothing, really, he’s quite extraordinary with the children. Just a bit of an odd duck himself. His methods can be . . . well. Idiosyncratic. He likes to work alone, doesn’t have an assistant. Quite safe, though, we have cameras posted in each classroom, in the hallways and on the playground . . . not that any of our teachers aren’t trustworthy . . . just a precaution.” Mrs. Hudson clears her throat. She stops in front of a classroom, one with the type of door that opens in two pieces; the top is open with a clear view into the classroom, though the bottom is closed.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson calls into the classroom.

“No.”

John peers through the open part of the door, spotting a tall man in what John thinks immediately must be a thoroughly expensive button down and trousers squatting in front of a small child in what, by the looks of it, must be a blocks area.

“It’s your turn, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says calmly.

“Mrs. Hudson, we are already having _quite_ the trying day. Saddling me with an insipid med student is not going to help anyone.”

“It’s your turn,” Mrs. Hudson repeats, opening the bottom half of the door for John.

“Repeating yourself does not emphasize anything to me other than that you are capable of speech. That technique only works on the children, and then only approximately 37% of the time.”

“If you say, so, dear.” Mrs. Hudson steps aside to allow John through the door.

Sherlock looks up, focusing his gaze on John. John resists the sudden urge to squirm. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, and then he sighs.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says, closing the lower half of the door behind John.

“It is unnecessary to thank me for unwillingly bowing to your authority. Again, that only works on the children. It will not make me any more pliable to your will in the future.”

“Alright, dear. Buzz the office on the intercom if you need anything.” Mrs. Hudson smiles benignly.

“We do need a broom, Mrs. Hudson. Those cretins in the three year old class down the hall borrowed ours and have yet to return it. I simply cannot teach properly with all of those cracker crumbs on the floor.”

“Not your housekeeper, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, leaving.

Sherlock stares at John. John is saved from making an opening gambit by the sudden wail of the child standing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock’s attention snaps toward the child instantly.

“Will is quite right, Gavin,” he says to the toddler. “It is his turn to play with the blue car. You had been in possession of it since 9:00, just after your arrival here. It is now 9:34, far past time you gave someone else a turn.”

Gavin does not take this information well. He begins to cry so hard his entire face becomes blotchy and red.

Sherlock frowns slightly. “I am unmoved by this display. If you’ll excuse me, I have an experiment to conduct.”

Gavin’s cries only become louder as he throws himself onto the bright, multi-colored carpet.

Sherlock stands, his attention once again focused on John. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John blinks. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“There’s a child crying on the carpet.” John motions toward Gavin.

“No, there’s a child attempting emotional manipulation on the carpet.” Sherlock tilts his head, looking at Gavin. “And quite badly, I must say.” Sherlock starts to move toward the sink, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he goes.

“Excuse me?” John asks.

Sherlock turns around, motioning toward the child who is now, by any definition, screaming. Sherlock seems unperturbed, as do, John notes, the rest of the children who are gathered around the room, busy playing.

Sherlock gestures at Gavin. “No tears.”

“No tears?” John repeats.

Sherlock sighs. “No tears. Gavin is not actually crying, merely screaming. Screaming, I might add, because he did not get his way. The world might stop and start for Gavin at home, but it does not here.” Sherlock says the last bit more or less directly at Gavin, who starts to pound his small fists on the floor. “No tears, no real distress. It is quite likely he is putting on even more of a show than usual for your benefit. Don’t give in.” Sherlock turns around on his heel again, starting the water at the adult level sink.

Listening to a child screaming at that volume is somewhat distressing to John, and John’s eardrums, but he steps forward – and past Gavin – anyway.

“One more time, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

“Err. Afghanistan,” John answers, blinking. “How did you know?”

“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“John Watson,” John says.

“Pardon?”

“My name is John Watson.”

“Ah. Yes. You interrupted your medical education to enlist in the Royal Marines, at least one year into your clinical training. This suggests you have either a masochistic or a noble streak, and quite a large one at that. Medical degree coupled with army training could mean either. Wounded means you were invalided out. You decided to continue your education upon your recovery, though quite likely you are doing so either out of sheer boredom or as an elaborate gambit to get your therapist to stop telling you that you need to take steps to reenter your life, imbue it with some meaning.” As John opens his mouth, Sherlock continues. “You’ve got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you’ve got a therapist.” He pauses. “I’m going to go with noble streak. No one else would care that much what their therapist has to say.”

Sherlock is setting several medium-sized, clear containers onto the table in front of him. He takes his attention off of John for a moment to look across the room to where a girl is painting at a child-sized art easel.

“Samantha, if you insist on painting, I insist you wear a smock.”

The little girl stops her painting to glare at him. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“You can either put on a smock and continue painting or not put on a smock and find another area in which to play. Either way it does not affect me. It’s your choice.” Sherlock looks utterly serene, but his voice is firm. Fifteen seconds more into their staring contest, the little girl turns and reaches into the basket of smocks, fishing one out. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upward. He gestures toward John.

“Help her put that on, will you? She won’t be able to fasten the back by herself, and if it’s not closed it defeats the purpose.”

“Sure,” John moves over to the easel and fastens the Velcro closures on the back of the little girl’s smock.

Sherlock is now placing small plastic cups in front of each container, one full of a powdery substance and one full of water from the sink.

As John walks back over to the table, a little girl abruptly runs up to Sherlock and wraps herself around his legs. To John’s slight surprise, Sherlock folds himself down to place an arm around the girl’s back and squeeze gently, returning her hug. He stands back up quickly, the girl looking up at him with a small smile.

“Do you need something, Maddy, or are you merely checking in?” Sherlock says.

In reply, the girl holds up a red, plastic apple. “Apple,” she says.

“Yes, apple,” Sherlock repeats. He plucks the apple from her and holds it for a moment in his long fingers. “An apple is a very nutritious snack. How did you know I was feeling a bit peckish?” Sherlock proceeds to make a show of “eating” the apple, taking big fake bites with his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly, and swallowing loudly. Maddy giggles at his feet. He finally hands the apple back to the girl.

“Thank you,” he says gravely. “I feel much better now.” Maddy takes her apple and scurries back to the area with a play kitchen.

“It’s only cornstarch,” Sherlock says to John.

“Pardon?”

“For the experiment. It’s only cornstarch.”

“I . . . okay,” John says. He notices that there are, in fact, cracker crumbs under the table. Quite a bit of them.

“We’re making ooblick,” Sherlock continues as he finishes setting up the table, a station with a bin and two cups in front of every chair.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ooblick. Bit of a nonsense word, but solid science. You’ll see.”

“I’m sure,” John says.

Sherlock looks around the room. “Friends, we’re going to do a science experiment at the table. If you would like to participate, please come to the table. If you do not, you may continue to rotate through centers during free choice time.”

At his announcement, about six of the children drop whatever they are doing and start to gather around the table. “Everyone needs to have one of the bins and two cups. Stacy, there’s one right next to you on the other side, no need to push Landon out of your way.” Gavin comes up and takes the position to Sherlock’s right, all trace of any upset completely gone. Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

Sherlock holds up each of the cups at the station in front of him at the head of the table. “One of these cups has something called ‘cornstarch’ in it. The other has water. I want you to observe what happens when you mix them together.” Sherlock pours both of his cups into the clear container. “You may mix them together with your hands, if you like.” Sherlock demonstrates with his own hands as he folds himself into an impossibly small chair.

The children are only a bit behind him. Some have already dumped both of their ingredients, some are already splashing their water/cornstarch mixture, and some have barely started to pour either cup. The boy closest to John is splashing quite hard, his choice to remain standing up giving him a lot of leverage, some of the mixture slopping out of the container and onto John’s left shoe.

“Please be careful, Louis. If you continue in that manner you will lose all of your ingredients and your experiment will not be a success. Use your hands more gently, like this.” Sherlock demonstrates stirring gently in his own container. Louis slows down his movements, though with only slight success.

“Gavin, please get a towel for Mr. Watson,” Sherlock directs. Gavin hesitates slightly but then heads to the children’s sink, where he opens the cupboard underneath to pull out an old towel.

“It’s just a little water,” Sherlock says to John.

“John.”

“Yes?” Sherlock responds.

“John. You and the children should call me John.”

Gavin comes over with the towel, and John takes the offering with a smile and thank you. Gavin smiles back and then runs back to his station.

“Of course,” Sherlock says neutrally. “Your shoes should be fine,” he adds.

 _Says the man with shoes that cost at least 300 pounds_ , John thinks, but doesn’t say it. He knows his shoes are fine.

Sherlock gives him a sharp, knowing look from where he is assisting a girl in mixing her ingredients. “John, even in the short time you will be here this week, you’ll learn that this profession lacks many things. Intellect. Wit. Verve. The very least I can do is add some _style_ to the proceedings. Tempera paint, sand, mucus, water or any of the other substances we encounter frequently here do not ruin anything. Usually.”

John finds himself smiling, just a little.

Sherlock eyes a boy at the end of the table who is poking at the ingredients in his container with the very end of his finger. “Justin. You may stir with a spoon instead of your hands, if you prefer.”

When the boy looks up but doesn’t respond, Sherlock gets up from his chair and opens one of the top cupboards, emerging with a plastic spoon in his hand. He hands the spoon to the child. “Try this,” he says. “It may help.”

The boy takes the spoon and sticks it in the water, stirring vigorously. Sherlock takes a moment to scan the rest of the room for trouble, then turns his attention back to the table. Many of the children are now handling a substance about the consistency, and color, of liquid glue.

“So why do you do it?” John asks suddenly. The fact that he has voiced the question aloud surprises him.

Sherlock looks surprised as well, though his mouth twitches in a way that John can already tell means he is hiding a smile. “Because of this, John.” Sherlock opens his arms as if he is embracing the entire table.

When John merely keeps looking at him, Sherlock speaks. “Because adults are _terrible_ , John. They are predictable, and petty, and set in their ways, in their routines and perceived feelings and jealousies. They are _boring_. Children, though. Children are in the business of discovery. They can still be surprised.” Sherlock pauses, looking at John so intently that John feels like Sherlock can see right through him. “And they can still surprise _me_.”

“I take it you are rarely surprised,” John says.

Sherlock looks at him. “In addition to medical school and your therapist, there’s the matter of your brother. Your phone - it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. You’ve been using it to check the time even though there’s a clock on the wall, and you fiddle with it in your pocket when you’re nervous, which you have been all morning. Force of habit. But you're a student, and a practical and noble one at that, or at least you think so. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man standing in front of me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already.” Sherlock makes a gesture akin to flipping a phone over in his hand.

“The engraving?” John asks.

“Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero in medical school. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re down on your luck regarding money, as evidenced also by your slight concern over the state of your shoes – you were concerned, just a bit, don’t lie about it -- and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?” John asks, though he quickly looks around the table at the children, all of whom are completely absorbed in their projects and not caring about him or the conversation going on around them a bit.

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see?”

“I see,” John says. After a moment, he leans forward toward the child closest to him, a ginger-headed boy, then squats to be in a better position. “How does that feel?” he asks the boy.

The boy looks at him, the mixture dribbling off his hands, wrists, and forearms. “Slimy!” He grins.

John grins, too. He puts his finger into the boy’s container, letting the mixture drip off his own finger as he lifts it into the air. “Sure is. D’you know what you just made? Other than slime?” The boy keeps grinning, but shakes his head no.

“It’s called a _suspension_.” John emphasizes the word for good measure. He’s still looking at the boy, but he can tell the rest of the children at the table are looking at him. “In science, a suspension is a substance which has the properties of a solid and a liquid at the same time. In other words, the water does not dissolve the cornstarch, like it would something else, like salt.”

“Susension,” the boy repeats.

“Very good!” John says. “Suspension.” He taps the boy on the nose with his ooblick covered finger, and the boy giggles.

John stands ups and walks to the sink to wash his hands.

“You’re a medical student,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, though his eyes are a little wider, less narrow than before.

“Yes.”

“You’d have at least a rudimentary knowledge of science.”

John dries his hands off. “True.”

Sherlock considers him, then abruptly looks at the clock. “Friends, it’s time to go outside to play. If you need to wash your hands, go to the sink; John will help you if you need it. You can leave your _suspension_ at the table and we can come back to it after playground. If you don’t need to wash your hands, you can go out into the hall and sit in your cubby for coats.” Sherlock turns Gavin, who had been making for the door, toward the sink with a gentle hand on his head.

While John helps children, Sherlock opens a storage closet in the corner of the room, retrieving a huge greatcoat and blue scarf. Small feet pound out into the hallway as Sherlock shrugs into his coat.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asks, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

“Hmm?” John helps the last child down off the small step stool.

“About you?”

“Hmmm,” John says again, face carefully neutral. He waits until the last child has left the room – there is a cacophony coming from the hall just outside. “Harry and me don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce and Harry is a drinker.”

“Spot on. I didn’t expect to get everything.”

“Harry is short for Harriet.”

“Sister,” Sherlock hisses. “You have a _sister_.”

John grins.

Sherlock heads for the door, turning around abruptly in the doorframe. “You’re a medical student.”

“Yes,” John answers.

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

“You were also in the war.”

“Yes.”

“Seen lots of injuries, then? Bumps, bruises, scrapes, gashes?”

“Yes.”

“Bit of trouble, too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime... far too much.”

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh God, yes,” John says.

Sherlock turns, his coat swirling around him. John can hear him from the hall: “We’ll have to see if that ‘natural’ pesticide they sprayed on the tomatoes yesterday has done its job – there might be dead ladybirds!” A clamor of small voices goes up, jubilant at the prospect.

John grins and goes to join them. His cane remains behind, propped up next to the sink.


End file.
